


Tell Me What You Want

by hotot



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: (sort of), Age Difference, Body Worship, Butt Squeezing, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Resolved Sexual Tension, Self-Doubt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 15:11:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9078202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotot/pseuds/hotot
Summary: Fixer gets shot, and Deacon surprises himself when he finds a way to show her how glad he is that she's not actually dead.~~~Fill for the Fallout kinkmeme. Original prompt: Deacon going down on F!SS like he needs her to survive. Slow, thorough and with attention to detail. Bonuses: driving her to the point of insanity and lots of butt squeezing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> ....what you really really want i'll tell you what i want what i really really want i wanna i wanna ah... 
> 
> Anyway. This is just smut and fix-it/unrealistic Deacon feels. I don't even think the Railroad gets a mention. Assume he’s at max affinity and there’s been a lot of mutual pining but zero action. No beta for this, so it's a bit drafty. Might revise at some point.

The buckshot from the raider’s shotgun hit Fixer full in the chest. She flew backwards with a strangle cry that sent Deacon’s heart right along with her. Deacon yelled, he actually yelled, giving away his position and threw himself forward, peppering the raider with beams from his laser pistol until the bastard was reduced to a pile of glowing red ash.

No one else moved. Not even Fixer.

“Fixer!”

He threw himself down beside her, hands trembling as he reached for a stim. Damn his hands, shaking in a way that wasn’t just from adrenaline, in a way that would completely blow his cover. Carefully concealed looks, never got caught staring, or brooding nights when he couldn’t sleep and she was passed out.

“Come on, pal, you’ve taken worse.” She hadn’t, actually, and he prepared for the worst, for the blood and… even as he lied to himself he ripped the front of her coat open, expecting to see a gory mess that would haunt his dreams. Instead, he found a vest made of cleverly layered ballistic weave, studded with buckshot and remarkably absent of blood.

Fixer opened her eyes. Warm, brown, pinched in pain, and the sight of those eyes sparking up at him made his heart flip over in his chest.

“That sucked,” she wheezed, coughing again. “Next time, Tom can field test his own prototypes.”

Deacon still hadn’t stopped shaking. “I thought--” He found that his arms were braced to either side of her head, and his body sagged until their foreheads brushed. Then he froze.

“Worried about me, Deacon?”

“Naw,” he said. “If I started worrying about you, I’d be so constantly stressed my hair would fall out.” His voice shook, but she laughed. “Let’s leave that to the rads.”

“I never see you shave your head,” she said. “I just assumed you were old and bald.”

“Hey,” he said, attempting to sound offended. “I don’t think anyone pre-war has business calling me old.” He was old though, older than her by… well, he wasn’t sure exactly, but it was probably around fifteen years.

“Yeah, well--”

God, their foreheads were still pressed together. His heart stopped for a moment and he suddenly worried he might be in need of that stim to get it started again.

“Hey,” he said, his voice tight, and she faltered at the sudden seriousness in his tone, her eyes trapping him like she was a damn snake charmer and he was a snake… Which he was. “Thanks for not being dead.”

She smiled and raised her chin so their noses brushed, her breath still short, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the concussive round she’d recently taken to the ribs or if it was their proximity. His breathing wasn’t so deep or regular either, he noted with dim concern as the corners of his vision started to fade to black, and a dull rora rose in his ears.

He wasn’t sure who started the kiss, but their lips met and he made an entirely stupid noise somewhere between shock and pleasure.

She tasted like brahmin jerky and nuka cola, smelled like campfire and gunpowder and something he’d smelled on her before. It smelled like flowers.

His groan deepened and her arms went around his neck, pulling him down. Her mouth was hot and needy on his, her lips a soft pout. He sucked gently on her lower lip, so full he wanted to take a bite of it, but the noise she made when their tongues met made him pull away. His jeans were already tight-- he wore one of his drifter personas, pompadour wig and all, and his hard-on was becoming insistent.

He was still shaking slightly, which he supposed was understandable. He’d gone from terrified to aroused so quickly that Deacon wasn’t sure where one feeling ended and the other began.

“Fixer…” he managed to say between gasps of air and the press of her needy mouth on his. “God, I need you…”

“Yeah, no shit,” she said into his lips, brushing gently, and then he sat up, taking her with him because her arms were still somehow around his neck and not letting go.

“Are we doing this?”

She nodded. “Nothing like a bit of ‘thank god I’m alive’ sex to close out a mission.”

“And here I was wanting to spend the day reading Proust,” he said, and pulled her to her feet, giving her a thoroughly nonsexual once over to make sure she wasn’t actually hurt and in shock, or hiding it. She was fine, just banged up bleeding a bit from the shoulder and tender around her chest and ribs, but it was nothing a stimpak and taking it easy couldn’t cure.

He was running out of excuses.

She kissed him again, and for some reason that was as much a surprise as her wanting him at all. Still, he decided it was okay to lie to himself for a bit and enjoy the attention, the feeling of her twined around him like a cat, almost purring at him. He walked her backwards carefully, his hands exploring her hips, her waist, the heady curve of her ass, until they hit a counter.

Deacon swept his arm across the surface, scattering mugs and pre-war money, and tools, and once he was sure she wasn’t going to sit on anything gross, he boosted Fixer onto the counter. There she sat half a head taller than he stood now. Her hands were already busy at the back of his head, leaning forward, and he stretched up to meet her hungry mouth.

He had no delusions about what this would mean to her. Her, with her two-months dead husband and her grief, her will to survive tied by a tethered thread to the hope that her son was still saveable, that she’d ever get to him.

Fixer with her pre-war vision of a Commonwealth future that included synths and ghouls alike, Fixer and profound reliance, that unabashed kindness.

At least she’d let him down easy. Because she was Fixer and she would never break something if she could fix it.

He’d definitely disappoint her… but not right now. Not in the next fifteen minutes.

His heart was trying to gouge its way out of his chest with an icepick, hammering at his ribs like a prisoner frantically digging a hole in a crumbling wall. So he did what he was best at and ignored it. He strained upwards and pulled her down to get better access to her mouth, hungry and more demanding of her than he had any right to be.

Her moan was like candy to him, like mainlining a quart of Nuka Quantum and he though he might just fall over and go into a sugar shock right then and there. Her hands found his shoulders and her fingers dug in so he echoed her noises. Her legs wrapped around his waist, squeezing in a way that promised to be absolutely delicious. She was usually so reserved, any sort of exuberance released in short, sharp bursts of real living, interspersed with long stretches of stoicism that rivaled even Deacon’s own ability to bullshit himself about how bad things really were.

Her lips traced down his jaw and her tongue slid over the rough, gingery stubble on his neck. He moaned.

“Fixer…” he said, a warning note in his voice.

“I want you,” she said. Fixer was always full of surprises. This must be one of her bursts of exuberance, a moment of liveness in the wake of near-death that he hadn’t seen coming. He wanted to see more of it, but didn’t know how he felt about being the target.

“Careful what you wish for, sugarbomb,” he said. The nickname slipped out before he could help it. It’s what one of his Goodneighbor drifter personas called pretty girls-- she knew that, and her teeth nipped at his neck like she was chastising him, and he shuddered at the sudden pain, grinning into her hair. Her hands found the hem of his shirt and the trail of hair on his stomach, leading down to the urgent hard-on in his jeans. In a quick motion she tugged his shirt over his head, and moved on to the button of his jeans.

No. The word was so clear in his head. He couldn’t… not with Fixer. He wasn’t going to gratify himself with her… her body, just because she wanted a good fuck after almost getting shot. He didn’t deserve to fuck her.

He grabbed her wrists and drew her hands up, draped one arm over his shoulders and clutched the other one in his, bringing it to his mouth. He kissed her fingers, one by one. First it was just a sweet impulse, but by the end he was sucking on the tip of her ring finger and she forced it deeper into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the digit. Her her thumb followed the same line along his jaw that still burned from her kisses, until she slid her finger from his mouth and dragged its wetness down his lower lip, tracing his mouth.

“Fuck… Dee. I need this.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m a natural with my tongue.” That wasn’t true. It had taken a lot of practice to be a good liar, years and years of it. It wasn’t the way she needed him to be good, though. And it had taken a lot of practice for him to be good with his tongue in the way Fixer was going to need, but he’d never really gotten enough practice after Barbara-- and that was something else he wasn’t going to think about, in the same way he knew Fix wasn’t thinking about Nate.

She leaned back to look at him, and he kept his smile crooked, hands on her thighs.

“You don’t want-”

He was going to have to play it big and filthy to steer her away from pure fucking.

“Oh, I do want. I want you flat on your back with my head between your thighs. I want to make you scream, sugarbomb.” Well, he was committed to the nickname now. That was the thing about lies. You set up the foundation and the frame, and have to stay within it, or the whole thing comes crumbling down. His hands slid up her thighs, squeezing the curve of her legs like he’d thought about doing dozens of times over the past few weeks.

She shrugged out of that vest that had saved her life, and her shirt followed. He yanked her pants down, fumbled with her boots and socks, rushing, afraid she was going to change her mind, or he was going to change his mind, but then she wore nothing but a bra and panties and he stilled, staring blatantly.

Shit, shit…

It was like he’d been running through a dark tunnel, full of noise and desperation, unable to stop or take a breath or think for so long, and then suddenly, he burst into the light and the quiet, like he was somewhere good, and she was the source of that goodness and he could think and breathe. She was perfect. Narrow shoulders, full breasts, curving hips. That neck. Her stubborn chin. He dug his fingers into the soft skin at her hips and stared at her chest, the sweet v of cleavage he wanted to run his tongue along until he found what was underneath her bra and... then he saw the galaxy of bruises had started to form over her chest, mottled blue and purple over her warm, pink skin and his heart started hammering again.

She stilled as well, watching him watch her. He curled his fingers into her hips. The silence between them was bizarre, almost brazen. A bigger risk than any kiss. They were never quiet. No, he was never quiet. Stream of consciousness motor mouth, only managing to shut the hell up now that he had her mostly naked and ready to fuck him sideways.

Maybe he was the one who’d been shot and now he was dead and this was his final dream.

“You can touch me,” she said, and that crooked smile was the absolute source of all light.

Didn’t they say you saw a bright light at the end of a tunnel when you died? Go into the light, and all that? His heart continued to dig with his ribs with that icepick. When had his heart managed to acquire an icepick, anyway.

“Oh… Fix…” If only she knew. “You are… fucking perfect, you know that. Definitely my favorite partner.”

“Pretty sure I've been your only partner. So, what is it you like about me so much?”

She reached behind her and took of her bra with a deft twist. His filled his hands with breasts, tasting salt as he kissed the line between them, the mottled bruises that could have been so much worse. He swiped his tongue over a nipple, and she gasped. He bit down, carefully, just grazing his teeth over the sensitive skin, and then he sucked and she moaned, fingers digging into his shoulders as he teased her nipples with his mouth and his hand while she shuddered.

“I like your tits,” he hazarded.

“Good, because I’ve got them for days,” she said, and he laughed and he buried his face in her chest, glassing going askew. He bit and licked her until her nipples were high and tight, little buds that he worried at until she was gasping and pulling his hands away.

His lips traveled up her chest to her collar bones, kissing along each clavicle and up ner neck and back down, worshiping her breasts until she was gasping and squirming.

“Too much, too much,” she gasped and he pulled away from her chest and reached for another kiss, this one bolder. He slid his tongue along her lip, and she nipped at him, opened to him and spread her legs. At first touch he found her dripping wet, soaking through her panties and his fingers came away slick. He pulled the crotch aside, not bothering to remove them yet, too impatient, and she gasped and leaned back. The rush again slowed to awe as he explored her sex, hot and needy. He ran his fingers up towards her clit, and then up again, stroking into a slow teasing rhythm.

“I like this too.”

“My cunt?”

“Yeah. I probably like it too much. I want to lick it.”

“Well, you said you were good with your tongue.”

“Calling me a liar?”

“Prove that you aren’t.”

He only had to bend a little. The counter was a high one, almost the perfect. But instead of burying his face in her sex like his body demanded he do, he kissed her there instead. If he couldn’t trust his words to be true, he could at least trust his body, if the urgent stiffness of his cock was any indication at all. He was going to savor every sacred moment he had with her.

She moaned again, shifting and he pressed his tongue against the fabric of her panties, tasting her through the cloth. He nipped, pulling them away with his teeth and then let them snap back. He kissed the inside of her thigh and then pulled her underwear down over her hips, running his thumbs over her thighs so she shivered, brushing her calves, her ankles, the tops of her feet, causing goosebumps to rise in his wake. She shivered.

“Lean back,” he said, and she actually listened to him, falling onto her elbows, watching him with those warm brown eyes shot with copper, pupils blown wide, lips parted and pouting. He spread her knees and his eyes fell between her legs to her sex, warm and pink, begging him to taste it and in that moment he wasn’t sure if he wanted to kiss her face or her cunt more.

He swallowed hard.

“Dee…”

“Shut up, Fix, and let me… let me make you feel good.”

“Then do it, and stop staring.”

His eyes shot up from where he had been staring blatantly at her dripping and needy sex, that hot little cunt lined in neatly trimmed curls. He locked eyes with her again and licked his lips. The glasses hid his expression, but she could read him so well, even without seeing his eyes.

“Remember when I told you that you were a big, beautiful distraction?”

“First time we met. Well, that I met you. I thought you were an asshole.”

“You’re not wrong. And neither was I. You’re fucking beautiful,” he told her. “And distracting.”

He tossed her underwear aside and pulled her legs apart at the knees. Better keep that mouth busy D, or you’re going to say something a little too real.

As if he hadn’t already.

Deacon leaned forward, still staring at her, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose so she could see the blue of his eyes.

“I-- ah!”

He bent forward buried his mouth in her sex, cutting off what she was going to say. The heady scent and taste of her invaded his mouth and nose as he found her inner folds and dragged his tongue up towards her clit, stopping just shy to suck gently before starting again.

“Deacon, fuck! You’re… ahh!”

She tried to scoot forward, to get more contact, and he grinned, shaking his head even as he gave her sex another swipe with his tongue. His hands tightened on the inside of her thighs, just above her knees to keep her still and he kept the same pace, trying to memorize body because there wouldn’t be a next time.

He raised his head to catch her eyes, sunglasses crooked and fogged from their combined heat.

“Can you just let me enjoy this for a second?” he said and she gave him a look, the one that said he was going to be in trouble for taking a joke too far. He wondered what the joke was here, wondered when she would figure out that he was totally serious. He lowered his head and renewed his efforts. slipped his tongue more deeply into her sex so she moaned, and he dragging up, finally tasting the tight bud of her clit. He started slow, pressing the flat of his tongue against the sensitive bud, feeling the cant of her pulse and the studder of her breath all through her body. And then he slowly swirled his tongue in a gentle rhythm so she shuddered all over again, pressing closer.

She was endless. The little moans she made were like gifts she piled around him, rewards for a job well done and he kept working her over, kissing and sucking. She fell to her back, her hands reaching out to knock his wig away. It fell somewhere among her clothes, and he redoubled his efforts as her legs fell to either side and her fingers dug into the back of his bare head, asking for more. He gave it to her, losing himself so completely in her body that he forgot about his own pressing needs, like the very specific one pressing against the confines of his jeans.

“Fuck… Dee, yes. Oh-- come on… come on...”

Everything felt slowed down, like a holotape playing at half speed, and yet his senses were on fire with her. He noticed everything: the way the nub of her clit grew harder when he rolled it between his tongue and his lips. The way she huffed a sigh as he sucked on her inner folds, the way she cried out when he stiffened his tongue and drove it into her again and again, before licking up her folds, returning to her clit and sucking again, moving his mouth against her like he was spilling secrets that weren’t his to tell, like he was telling her the truth.

He pulled away, kissed down her thigh, and she made a noise of frustration, pulling his head back between her legs so his glasses came askew. He pulled them off completely and set him aside. “Come on. Didn’t think you’d be a fucking tease.”

He kissed back up her other thigh and girnned. “So you’ve been thinking about me.”

She sat back up on her elbows, but didn’t say anything, and Deacon pulled away, looked at her. A light sheen of sweat coated her body. Her breasts pained lovely picture, full and begging to be touched, tipped in hard peaks of pink. But she wouldn’t meet his eye.

Aw fuck. He said something wrong. Of course he had. His heart pounded in his chest, but it had put the icepick away at some point. Still, his flighty nerves picked up the battlecry and screamed that he needed to run while he still could, but that damn capricious heart of his said stay, and for once, he listened to it.

“What… sugarbomb, what is it?” He straightened, and his cock throbbed, reminding him that he was doing absolutely nothing to alleviate it. “You’ve been thinking about me?” There was no teasing her the second time he said it.

He pulled her face down to his and sought her eyes again. It was funny, such a reversal, her looking away and his seeking contact. His thumb traced absent patterns against her neck, and at last she raised her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“For what, Fix?”

“For thinking of you. It’s inappropriate. Completely unfair.”

He stared at her for a moment, and then he started laughing, shoulders shaking.

“Dee? Come on, don’t… don’t laugh at me.”

“Oh, no. God, no, I--” He coughed a little. “I’m not. I’m just… it’s really funny. Cuz I’ve been thinking about you for… a bit, too.”

Longer than he would ever admit. Longer than she’d even known that he existed. She stared at him, eyes widened in shock. God, he loved the way her lips parted when she discovered something truly startlingly good amongst all the horror. It happens a bit when she was traveling the Commonwealth, the wasteland being a brave new world for her and all. He never thought she’d look at him that way, though.

“Your eyes…” she said in a breathless whisper, and then he pulled forward and kissed her again, and again, and again, her breasts pressed against his bare chest. His hands filled with her, teasing and then she scooted forward and her hands were everywhere and it felt so fucking right he could cry. He abandoned her chest for her ass, and moaned as the sweet twin curves filled his hands even more than her breasts, and he squeezed and kissed down her sternum, across her belly. He found her stretch marks from the baby she’d had ten months ago… 210 years ago, and kissed those to, ran his tongue along the little lightning scars until he found his way back to her cunt and kissed her there, again and again, sucking her clit and swirling his tongue until she arched in his hands. He fucked her with his mouth, slow deep, trying to convince her with is tongue in the only way he could, because that was thing about his words.

His words didn’t mean anything at all.

His heart surged again, and he squeezed her ass, lifting her to him so she supported herself on her elbows alone and her legs wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him closer. He lost it then, truly, and gave her everything he could, trying not so much to fuck her good as reach the very core of her, show her how much she mattered.

She cried out, not little mews of pleasure this time but sharp gasps and cries as he used his tongue in broad strokes, and low, guttural moans when he sucked at her clit. His cock throbbed, but it only spurred him on, transforming his own need into her pleasure.

Her last cry was a staccato crescendo, rising in volume and in pitch, her voice coming unraveled, and her hips bucked into him. His fingers squeezed into her ass, hard enough to bruise and she shuddered as he latched onto her clit and held her to him, pulsing his mouth against her. Her cunt throbbed once, twice and she shuddered, but he chased down her orgasm, flicking his tongue over and over her swollen clit untl she shuddered again and again, and she screamed and came again, harder than he thought possible.

“Fu-fuck.”

“How’re you doin’ sugarbomb?” He said into her thigh, her legs releasing their vice-grip grip around his shoulders. He squeezed her ass again to see if she’d respond, and she giggled, and his heart finally stopped trying to crawl out of its chest and instead settled for a little flutter of relief that he could stick his face in her cunt and afterwards he could still make her laugh.

“We should have ‘thank god we’re alive’ sex more often,” she said, flat on her back, dazed and staring at the moldering ceiling of the department store or whatever place the raider had holed up in used to be.

“I’d prefer fooling around in bed sex. Or public sex. Or 'Deacon, will you please shut up and kiss me' sex. Pretty much anything that doesn’t involve you almost dying is good in my book.” God, he was pushing it, way harder than he should.

“I should have told you about the vest. I just didn’t want to change anything about our dynamic.” She grinned suddenly. "Oops."

“Nothing’s gonna change unless you want it to, sugarbomb.”

“Except I’ve got a new nickname.”

“Well, there’s that.”

“And what if I want it to change? Tell me what you want.” She mimicked the way he used to say it to her, but somehow even more sassy than he could manage on a good day.

God, no one had asked him that in such a long time. Not in the way she was asking, sass aside. He hadn’t asked himself that question since Barbara had been murdered. He licked his lips, rolled his tongue in his mouth, tasting her and he knew he didn’t want to go a day without at least some taste of her.

He leaned in and kissed her full on the mouth, and she hummed. When they broke apart, he had a answer, and it was a venerable litany of wants.

“I want you to not die. I want to be able to kiss whenever we want. I want to help you find Shawn. I want to always be in your corner, because it’s the best damn corner I’ve ever been in.”

Her smile was dazzling. It always had been, but now it was like bonfire, and oh boy was he willing get burned. Probably. Maybe. If he didn’t have a panic attack later that night and bust out a stealth boy.

“Great list,” she said. She pushed him back a pace with her foot and gave the bulge in his pants a pointed look. “Anything else?”

"Well... there is this one thing that's been bothering me."

"What?" she asked. Fixer's brows drew down in the middle, and she tilted her head to the side.

He almost felt bad about how concerned she looked. _Almost_. "Well, d-- d'you think... molerats have feelings, because the other day I saw--"

She swatted him and he grabbed her hand.

"Oh my  _god_ will you shut up and kiss me?"

He grinned, and leaned in for another kiss.


End file.
